And Madness Calls it Forth
by NRATQH
Summary: When Jason pulled that trigger and planted a bullet right between Penguins eyes, He knew exactly what he was giving up. But he never bargained on his brothers unwilling to do the same.


When Jason was a kid, he'd always lived his life knowing that there wasn't much in it that was worth caring for. Not the worn damp walls of the home he'd been born in. Not the tired, soiled streets he grew up on. Not even the one parent he knew because she would always be so jacked upon drugs she'd barely recognize her own son.

So when Batman had somehow found hiss way into Jason's world- laughing his head off at a boy who'd been gutsy enough to try and steal his tires- Jason had been overjoyed. Ecstatic. Excited over the idea that there might be finally something out there that made waking up in the morning the adventure he'd always read in his books. He had poured his heart and soul into being robin. Given up what little he had to carve that R into everything that he was and for those few years with Bruce, every moment had been worth it.

Coming back. Coming back had not been. Not a second of it had been.

Instead every moment had been torment. Every waking thought a nightmare he feels he hadn't woken up from. As if he was still trapped in that lone warehouse. Watching a timer tick down to zero. But instead of ending, it stalls. As if he's being held on the chopping block but the blade won't fall. The anticipation so maddening that it has him screaming, flailing against whatever dares to hold him down.

It was torturous in every sense of the word and for a long time, Jason wasn't OK. He was the furthest thing from it. There were so many nights he'd find himself standing on the edge of his apartment balcony, clouding his judgment with alcohol in hopes it would help him muster up the courage to take that final step into oblivion again.

The only thing that had held him back was the fear. Not of death. But being brought back. To wake up in a box 6 feet under where his screams didn't make a sound. That slow painful realization of the air beginning to thin even as he gasped and sobbed for one more breath. To claw and tear his way through wood and dirt, screaming for Bruce. Only to find out he wasn't there.

Jason could not forgive. He could not forget.

That shining light of hope that had been his time as Robin suddenly seemed twisted and marred. Coloured in horrors and dread where the shadows at the corners loomed like monsters under his bed threatening to pull him under. Sleep a trepidation he would keep at bay till he collapsed from exhaustion.

It's not something he likes to think back to. It's not something he likes to visit. The shadows still loomed along the halls of the manor, the corner of his room. But they're weaker now. Frail. The laughter that echoes through Bruce's mansion holds them back like a flame. And it's almost surreal how lately, every tomorrow seems to feel more bearable than its yesterday. How it's starting to feel less and less strange to show up at dinner and take part in playful bickering. How movie nights are almost as compulsory as the patrols that precede it. How patrols themselves don't seem as haunting and dark when you have a disgruntled Robin tagging along and demanding ice-cream.

The first time Jason had brought Bizarro to the manor (A decision he wouldn't have made lightly if he hadn't desperately needed the aid) he had been welcomed by an organized chaos of instructions and movement as Alfred and Tim worked to stem the blood loss and flush the drug out of the clone's system. They never asked or said a word. Not even when Jason had planted himself by Bizarro's bedside and refused to move until his friend woke up. It's odder still when Jason starts doing the same thing for his brothers.

Life was better. Kinder. Almost gentle. But at the same time there was still so much to lose.

So when Jason had made that decision to plant a bullet between Penguins eyes, it hadn't been made lightly. It hadn't been made without realizing what was at stake. It had not been done without fully acknowledging what he was about to lose.

Though he can't deny the almost cynical pleasure he feels when he pulls the trigger anyway. Watching the blood drain from the villains head and with it, any hope his family had for him.

So weeks later, when he finds himself choking on fear gas and surrounded by thugs out of a job and itching for a beating, he doesn't expect to be saved. He doesn't expect the rain of blows and kicks to his chest to stop. He doesn't feel anything but the fear and reflexive anger curling in his veins and drawing long forgotten demons from the shadows.

But then the lights flicker out, screams that weren't his own fill the air and hands are suddenly pulling him close. Supporting his weight even as his head lolls to the side and his consciousness slips into the darkness.

He hadn't expected to be saved. He hadn't expected to wake up hours late tucked away in Nightwing's bed, covered in bandages and sporting a headache that makes the room spin. But he is.

He doesn't expect to see his big brother asleep on a chair by the only window of his small apartment bedroom. Tim snoozing on the floor beside him with his head on Dicks lap while the little demon himself is sprawled over what little space is left on the bed by Jason's legs.

The room still turns around him and he can feel the residues of dread and terror peeking through the calm of his consciousness. But Damian shifts in his sleep and curls around Jason's legs like a cat and Jason feels peace he thought he'd never feel again when he pulled that trigger weeks ago, washing over him. And for once he doesn't fight it. He doesn't pull away. Instead he sinks back into the dozen pillows crowded around him. Takes in a deep breath and falls back asleep. Feeling for the first time in a long while, grateful to be alive.


End file.
